Storms (11 page)

Stevie sitting on the side of the stage.

Songs washed over and through me. Christine's poignant “Songbird”, clearer than daylight, dedicated to Curry Grant. And Lindsey's “Second Hand News”—only a man could write that to his ex-lover! Suddenly it was “Go Your Own Way.” The entire hall was on its feet. Ray, Lindsey's loyal guitar roadie, was onstage, accompanying Lindsey, and Stevie was racing round like a spinning top, wearing a top hat, beating a tambourine, whipping everyone
into a frenzy. Flowers were sailing toward the stage, people were packing the aisles, trying to edge closer to the dream they'd just shared. There was laughter and celebration in those final words, “Thank you, San Francisco, and goodnight!” and then the stage was plunged into darkness.

I positioned myself by the stairs as instructed. It was eerie standing there, looking over the audience instead of being a part of it with a ticket stub in my back pocket. In a little over three hours my world had tilted on its axis and started turning in a different direction.

“You're part of the Fleetwood Mac family … You're one of us … It's a link stronger than blood.”

I shivered. J.C. had whispered those words to me not just to comfort me. He wanted to make sure I understood something—that just as Lindsey and I knew we had fallen in love, so did the band, so did the organization, so did the “family.” And they knew that this meant I had to be admitted to the circle. I didn't want to think about the implications of that, not just then. I'd done enough thinking for one night.

The clamor from the crowd changed in tone, and I turned to see flashlight beams through the curtains, newly parted. The stage was a riot of color—gold, blue, red. Stevie took center stage, a sheer scarf draped over her head. A star. Her voice rang out, husky, sensuous, taunting. Pure Stevie Nicks, “Gold Dust Woman”, the ancient queen who uses men to satisfy her lust. Her sexual presence was mesmerizing. I was so caught up in it that I almost forgot J.C.'s command to get down to the dressing room by the end of the first encore.

I slipped through the curtain and back to our sanctuary. In minutes Lindsey would be offstage. I had to look my best, but exhaustion was catching up with me. I locked myself in the bathroom, made up my pale face, then inhaled J.C.'s gift and smiled thankfully. It was having a positive effect already. I felt stronger, more confident, happier. Wasn't that positive?

I heard one final bone-shaking roar from the crowd as I unlocked the bathroom door. Their show was over. Mine was starting. I counted to ten and walked into the dressing room, assuming the entire band would be there.

But there was only Stevie, pacing, clasping and unclasping her hands. She stopped dead when she saw me and stood silently, staring at me. I smiled, tentatively, but she glared and whirled round, throwing herself onto a couch, sobbing hysterically.

I didn't know what to do. Should I comfort her? Would she accept that from me? She'd avoided me whenever she could, and part of me understood that. She and Lindsey were a musical partnership, had been lovers, now were being forced to perform and smile with their deep sense of betrayal pushed into some dark region where past loves are buried and new hatreds breed. I took one step toward the sobbing heap of black chiffon and layered sequined shawls.

Mercifully, Robin Snyder, Stevie's voice coach and best girlfriend, raced into the room at this very moment and swooped down on her, cradling her, rocking her, murmuring to her.

“It was horrible! I hated the show! I missed a cue in ‘Rhiannon' and Lindsey had to cover for me! I hated it! I can't do it!” Stevie's sobbed. “I won't do it any more! I can't!”

I slipped by them. I had to get to Lindsey. If this was Stevie's reaction to the stress of performance, what might be happening to the man I loved, whose agony tonight during “So Afraid” had both shocked and devastated me? Would he be hurting this way? I rushed down the hall, flanked by security guards, and headed for the tuning room. And there he was—face to the wall.

The hush was like a rain-drenched night in Oklahoma after a storm. Heat engulfed me, burning from the lights around the mirror and Lindsey's sweat-soaked body. I spoke his name softly, and without turning around he stretched out his hand to me. Blood dripped from his slashed fingers.

I felt a wave of protectiveness, pure compassion. How could he do this to himself? This was his guitar style, this finger-picking, this refusal to use a pick, but it was self-harm, too. I grabbed a towel and gently took his damaged fingers in my two hands, wrapped them in the towel as he turned, exhausted, to face me.

“Baby, was it OK?” he breathed, almost too tired to speak.

“You were amazing!” I told him, taking him in my arms. I helped him into the chair, eased off his wet shirt, now grimy and transparent, and slipped into the bathroom to soak paper towels in cold water for his face and body.

He sat with his eyes closed as I pushed his long brown curls out of the way and gently washed his face and bound the towel, torn into strips, around his fingers. No rock star now, he was a small, helpless child needing tenderness.

“You're my angel, Carol”, he whispered, tipping my chin up with one bandaged hand. “I love you.”

There was no running away from this. I was going to heap his shadows in one corner and let in light. However damaged he was, bloodied, pursued by the monsters of his past or his childhood, or whatever it was that gave him no rest, I'd find those creatures and destroy them.

Our roles, in this one night, had reversed. He wasn't my fairy-tale protector. I must be his. This was the part I had to play, this part, kneeling at his feet, watching over him. Making him better.

He pulled me to him and kissed me, hard and desperately. The door was flung open suddenly and Ray Lindsey almost fell into the room. “It's crazy out there! Keep this door closed!” he barked over his shoulder at one of the security guards. “They've let the punters in already! It's hell!”

“Carol”, Lindsey asked, his voice drained, “I hate to ask you this, but could you go across to the dressing room and get me a Myers's and Coke?”

“Whatever you need”, I said.

“You'll be OK?”

“Fine!” I said with a courage I didn't feel, but the cocaine created the courage for me as security men formed a cordon to keep the crowds off my back and I struggled through the crush of bodies to the dressing room, expecting to find Stevie, sobbing still, distraught. Instead I found an empty room reeking with the stench of stale tobacco, spilled alcohol, and raw fear. There were linear tracings of white dust on the bar, where empty bottles perched drunkenly. And there, on the shabby sofa, was one abandoned sequin-scattered shawl.

As I moved across to mix Lindsey's drink I caught sight of myself in the scuffed mirror—a thin, pale girl with pale hair wearing a white satin blouse smeared with blood. Lindsey's blood. And that image will remain clear for all time: the sequined shawl—cheap, gold, splaying out rainbow light—and on my shirt a deep slash of blood, dried to black.

This Carol, this reflection in a mirror, wasn't the same person who'd arrived five hours earlier. That Carol had been a young girl who felt as if she were on the outside looking in. Starry-eyed, feeling as through she were arriving at a party—a guest who was only there to see how the beautiful people lived, dressed, and behaved.

She now knew that she was not a guest. She was one of the hosts of the hottest party in town. Lindsey and his fellow band members were the
party; and as the woman he loved, I was now a princess in the royal court of Fleetwood Mac. Cinderella had come to the palace to stay. In every fairy tale I'd ever read, once the heroine of the story found her prince or knight in shining armor, she was automatically transformed into a great lady who lived happily ever after within the walls of her lover's kingdom. I didn't recall ever reading anything about her having doubts that she belonged in that kingdom. No—love and love alone was all she needed.

This is my fairytale
, I said to myself,
and it's no time to change the rules.

During the first month of the U.S.
Rumours
tour I stayed behind in L.A., working at Producer's Workshop, for, unlike everyone else in my new world, I had a “normal” job. The time seemed to fly by, and things once again stabilized for me. I loved my little apartment and I loved my job. I missed Lindsey every minute, but his calls every night helped to ease the loneliness. On show nights he called me at 1
A.M.
or later and we would talk for at least an hour.

After being away only a week Lindsey insisted that I fly out on the weekends to join the band. So every Friday night a long, black limousine was waiting for me in the parking lot of Producer's, attracting stares and attention from the ragtag group of tourists, junkies, and hookers passing by on Hollywood Boulevard. Upon arrival in whatever city Fleetwood Mac was playing that night, I was whisked straight to the venue to meet up with Lindsey and the band.

Just like a reverse Cinderella, when the clock struck six I was off and running to my prince, instead of away from him, for the next three Fridays. As each weekend came to an end, Lindsey and I found it harder and harder to say goodbye.

The tour was going great. The album was selling out in stores, breaking sales records, and getting so much airplay that it seemed that every station across the country had only one artist on their playlist: Fleetwood Mac. Rumours had sold one million copies in the first eleven days of its release, going platinum. Within a month it reached number one on
Billboard's
album chart and was on its way to making history, for it would stay at the top for an unprecedented thirty-one weeks. Interviews, magazine
cover shoots, and sold-out shows were now an everyday occurrence for the band.

Fleetwood Mac returned to Los Angeles and Lindsey once again appeared in the doorway of Producer's Workshop to sweep me off my feet and take me home with him. The band had a three-week break before leaving for Europe and the next leg of the tour. I refused to think any further ahead than the next few precious days.

As the first week passed by we resumed our routine of being together every night at either his house or mine. We didn't speak of the upcoming European tour. I couldn't bear to think of being separated from Lindsey, and like most people faced with painful dilemmas, I put it out of my mind, hoping that if I ignored it the horrible problem would go away.

During the second week of Lindsey's break he called and asked me to drive over to his house after work. “I can't pick you up today, angel. I forgot to tell you, we're shooting the cover of
Rolling Stone
with Annie Leibowitz here at my house. Come on over right after work, OK? The band's driving me insane.”

Although I couldn't wait to see Lindsey, I looked at my clothes in horror. I was dressed in a short pleated black skirt and a man's white shirt, with black ankle-strap low heels on my feet. Very Mary Quant and English, but not exactly drop-dead sexy. I looked like a schoolgirl rather than the rock ‘n' roll femme fatale that I tried to be at all Fleetwood Mac gatherings. The fact that I rarely succeeded in achieving the sophistication I struggled so valiantly for was beside the point.
There's nothing for it
, I told myself.
If I take the time to go home to change, I'll be an hour late getting to Lindsey's and, by the sound of his voice, he wants me there ASAP. The drive itself takes at least thirty minutes!
I sighed as I fixed my makeup, adding Brigitte Bardot-style eyeliner.
Better than nothing, I guess.
I giggled as I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Sheesh, I look as though I'm twelve years old … with attitude. In Lindsey's eyes, that might not be such a bad thing!

When I pulled up in front of his house it was obvious that something big was happening in this modest little neighborhood in West L.A. The street was lined with limousines and Mercedes, and Lindsey's front yard was littered with photography lights shining in through the windows. Fluffing up my hair, I checked my face in my rearview mirror, jumped out of my little VW Bug, and, walked carefully through the confusion of cables strewn over his lawn.

Taking a deep breath—always wise before an encounter with Fleetwood Mac—I knocked softly. Lindsey threw the door open and yelled, “Thank God you're here! They're driving me crazy!” He stopped talking and looked me over slowly. “Hey, little girl, looks like you're looking for your daddy. I like it, Carol. You should wear this stuff more often.”

I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he meant every word and I felt confidence flood through me as he pulled me into the house. Mick got up from the couch, leered, and began making a few suggestive “schoolgirl” remarks of his own. John and Christine started laughing as Mick and Lindsey each took one of my arms and played a tug of war with me caught in the center. Stevie sat silently, apparently not thrilled by my arrival and the happy reception I was receiving.

After I was finally allowed to sit down, I got a good look at the band. Everyone was dressed in varying outfits of nightgowns, T-shirts, and boxer shorts except for John, who was bare-chested and wearing blue jeans. Stevie had on a beautiful peach gown, a 1930s lace-and-satin boudoir piece. She looked amazing. Leaning over, Lindsey whispered into my ear, “This cover is going to be totally cool. Annie has the five of us lying on my bed … very incestuous.” He looked at my raised eyebrows and laughed. “It's Fleetwood Mac, Carol—are you surprised?”

Suddenly I heard a loud voice calling out from Lindsey's spare bedroom. “Come on, you guys, quit fuckin' around in there. I need you in here now!” The voice was followed by the appearance of a woman with cropped short brown hair, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. It was clear that Annie Leibowitz was used to being obeyed and she carried herself with an authority that spoke of numerous encounters with crazed rock ‘n' rollers. Famed for her
Rolling Stone
covers and gorgeous pictorials of models as well as the rich and famous, she had reached a level of fame in photography shared only by Richard Avedon and Francesco Scavullo. For her to be shooting Fleetwood Mac's first
Rolling Stone
cover for
Rumours
was a sign that Fleetwood Mac had truly arrived.